


Happy Endings are a Work in Progress

by daphnethewriter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ASL, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sign Language, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnethewriter/pseuds/daphnethewriter
Summary: Relationships, even good ones, aren't easy. And they really aren't easy when you're involved with an Avenger.A series of Avenger x Reader one-shots from the No More Heroes Universe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are as established in the No More Heroes Universe (including The Silence Between Us).

This chapter is a follow up one-shot to [The Silence Between Us](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9803252/chapters/22013903), part of the [No More Heroes Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/NoMoreHeroesUniverse).

 

**Why Not?**

**(Steve x Reader)**

 

Steve is _not_ spying. He just happens to be in the gym at the same time as your first training session with Sam. And if his favorite punching bag _happens_ to have a good view of the all-purpose mats in the middle of the room… nothing wrong with that. So, he's not spying. And he's not jealous. In fact, he's relieved that Sam will be the one training you.

Kind of.

A little.

…

But you didn't even _ask_ Steve; you went straight for Sam's help. You could have at least _wanted_ to train with him.

Steve works through his punching bag, watching as you smile and joke with Sam. Sam is a good guy, a good teacher. He's patient, his instructions are clear, he keeps your form in check. His hands are always at your waist, correcting your stance or testing your balance. He could maybe touch you a little less (a lot less).

Sam finishes your session with a sweaty side hug before he leaves. You beam as you collect your equipment and Steve unwraps his hands to join you. He doesn't want to feel the sting of jealousy that has lodged under his ribs. You've never given him any reason to doubt you. But he isn't exactly used to being anyone's first choice. Your proud smile flips his heart over and he leans in for a kiss when he takes a dumbbell from your hand.

You step away, eyes sliding from his.

The rejection hits him like a punch to the gut.  In an instant, Steve is five foot two, ninety-five pounds again, watching as Betsy Davidson tells him she only likes him as a friend.

You look back to him, tucking an errant strand of hair into your ponytail, and give a half-hearted smile. [see you at dinner?] you sign.

Steve nods, his mouth dry. You wave to him as you hurry out of the gym. Steve stands alone, feeling your rejection in every cell of his body.

Steve watches your next few training sessions. You seem so much like yourself, so why do you shy away from him now? Usually, you love when he kisses you, keeping the contact as long as you can, smiling when you pull away. What did he do wrong? Why does Sam get to touch you while you keep Steve at arm's length?

The next week is a symphony of discord as Steve puts distance between you, unable to banish the memory of the way you'd stepped out of his embrace.  Sitting with you in the dark of his suite—on opposite ends of the couch—watching _Duck Soup_ , Steve feels every inch of empty space between you. Your gaze jumps to him periodically, but he makes no move toward you. What's the point? If you're going to leave him, why fall more hopelessly in love with you?  

You move toward him, an inch at a time, as if Steve isn't watching for each minute shift. You take half an hour to do it, but you end up at Steve's side. You lay against his chest and wrap your arms around his waist. He doesn't stop you… but he doesn't accommodate you either. The movie ends. You leave.

The next day, he doesn't watch your training session. It hurts too much and if he stays, he'll punch Sam. That's not right. Instead, he waits in your room, brain and heart at war. He wants to talk to you about it but he also _does not_ want to talk to you about it. Not if it means that you'll tell him it's over. That it was a mistake. That you prefer Sam. That Steve wasn't what you thought—what you wanted.

He sits on your bed. Watches his hands. Replays the past week. Where had he gone wrong? He had gotten used to rejection in his life, but he thought… he thought you liked him.

No good. His chest is tight. His throat burns. He won't be able to talk to you like this.

Just as he makes up his mind to leave, you come into the room. You startle when you see him, but the shock is replaced with a smile just as quickly. Your smile, the one that Steve loves. It rips his heart in two.

He has to be sure. Maybe it really is all in his head. Steve opens his mouth, closes it, swallows, tries again. "I—" _I need you._ There's no way he can get those words around the lump in his throat. He shakes his head and holds his hand out to you. He needs you to take it, needs you to climb on his lap and curl into his chest like you always do.

You don't.

Your smile falters, turning apologetic. You step back, casting your gaze around the room, anywhere except at him. Your fingers fidget over each other. Steve's heart drops like it's filled with lead. That's it then. He stands to go.

Panic floods your face. You step between him and the door, hands in front of you. [what's wrong?]

Steve wouldn't know where to start. It's like he's having open-heart surgery while you watch. You were the first person to make him glad that he woke up in the future. He can't even tell you how devastated he is because that would mean admitting how much you meant to him—how much _more_ you mean to him than he does to you. Steve's been humiliated before—beat up, rejected, insulted—but it never hurt like this.

He talks to fill the silence, keeping his voice even and detached. He can't look at you. "It's okay." (It's not okay.) "I understand." (He doesn't understand.) "If—if this isn't…" Damn, damn, damn. He's losing it. He blinks too many times.

Suddenly, you're there, one hand smoothing over his cheek, the other twining through his hair. You step into his line of view, eyes enormous and terrified, searching his face. His arms go to your waist, acting on months of muscle memory, his first instinct to seek comfort from you. You cringe.

"Why?" The question escapes before Steve can stop it. "Why can't I?"

You gape at him, then realization dawns over your face and you smile. A smile. Nothing could break his heart more. He tries to step around you, but you take his wrist in your hand and raise his palm to your lips. His stomach flips over.

You shake your head. [don't want you to touch me because I'm sweaty]

Steve's eyebrows pull together. What?

[don't want you to think I'm gross]

Steve's brain struggles to gain traction with the new information. "But, you let Sam touch you."

[S-A-M isn't my boyfriend] You shrug. [I don't care what he thinks]

Steve's heart stutters. You care what he thinks. He… he hadn't thought about that. You've seen him covered in sweat, dirt, and blood so many times, he never realized.

[I didn't know you worried] you sign. [I'll shower then dinner?]

"Yeah, that sounds… sounds great."

You walk toward the bathroom, but pause mid-stride. You turn back to him, the corner of your mouth quirked. [you want to join?]

Steve's brain stops.

You tug him behind you into the suite bathroom and close the door after him. Steve watches you, mystified, as you flip the lock. You don't wait for him to regain his bearings. Instead, you shimmy out of your skintight workout pants and toss your top over your head as you walk to the shower.

Steve's insides turn to static. Holy… What is happening right now? A minute ago, he had been so sure that you—and now you… you're… _what?_

You turn your attention to the faucet. Steve has never seen anything more beautiful than you standing half-dressed, fiddling with the temperature and pressure. He memorizes the scene: the curve of your back as you reach up to adjust the spray, how a few sweat-soaked strands of hair escape from your bun to fall over your neck. It simultaneously completely novel and utterly familiar, a scene he imagined so many times actually playing out in front of him.

You look over your shoulder at him, then frown when you see that he hasn't moved. [come on sweetie] you sign. You cross the distance from the shower to the door to tug at the hem of his shirt. You trace your fingers over the muscles of his torso. Steve shudders when your hands toy with the hem of his jeans.

You smirk and pull him by his waistband to the shower, overriding his protest and pushing him—still fully clothed—inside. Soaked through and in shock, Steve watches you finish stripping and step inside with him.

Was—was the shower always this small? Geez, you're close and wet and… and naked. He doesn't have time to process that properly because you press him against the wall with a kiss that would have ignited a fire if the water hadn't drenched it first.

He loses his train of thought. The kiss sweeps the dozens of insecurities and plans and contingencies and excuses out of his mind as if he dunked his brain under the water. Your hands slide under the wet material stuck to his torso. Ah—man—geez. Hands, he has hands, but what the hell is he supposed to do with them right now?

His clothes are heavy, weighted by the water soaking through them. It's uncomfortable and rapidly becoming more so. His jeans were too tight to begin with and are getting tighter by the second. He needs to figure out what to do about his hands soon. Right now, they're hovering about two inches over your shoulder. And, okay, it's not like he hasn't touched you before. There's been skin to skin… just never quite so _much_ skin.

In his fantasies, he's more forward, taking charge of the situation to press you against the wall, not standing like a deer in the headlights with no idea what to do with his hands. Of course, in his fantasies, he isn't fully clothed.

He reaches behind him to grab a fistful of the wet fabric of his shirt and shuck it over his head. The moment he's free of it, you press against him again, hands tracing over his chest, lips following in your fingers' wake. He frees your hair from the bun you tied it in and tangles his hands in it to tug you back up for another kiss.

"Weren't you supposed to be showering?" he asks without moving his lips from yours.

Your shoulders shake with a silent laugh and you pull away smiling. [take off your pants and I'll let you help]

Steve's heart skips a beat, but he doesn't stop your hands from going to the button of his jeans. You kiss him as your hands skim over the line of his hips. It takes some struggling, but he eventually manages to kick the rest of his sopping clothes out of the shower and onto the tile floor of the bathroom.

You reach around him—that is _not_ a view he's forgetting anytime soon—for your absurd pink loofa and bottle of lavender scented body wash (whatever happened to soap, anyway?). You hand them to him.

The pretense of showering doesn't last long. The loofah ends up forgotten on the floor of the shower while Steve's hands roam over your body and he _swears_ he's helping if you would just cooperate. You seem to be less focused on getting clean and more on getting as many suds on Steve as possible. That's okay with him, since it means the length of your body presses against him (and he will never say a bad word against body wash ever again because— _gosh_ ). There is no way for you both to be in the shower without touching _somehow_ and Steve is so very okay with that too.

 This is more in line with how he imagined sharing a shower would be: long soapy kisses and water the only thing between his skin and yours. Everything smells like you and your hair sticks to his skin and it's hot and wet and sexy and just… _glorious_.

He's attuned to each tiny reaction he can coax out of you with his fingers and lips, listening for every small hitch in your breathing. If he can get you to moan, that would be even better. You don't lose your control for nothing; it would mean he drove you out of your mind. Steve _really_ wants to do that. So, he tries something risky.

He hitches you up by your hips and—as if you already knew what he was going to do—you wrap your legs around his waist. Perfect. He holds you steady with his arms under your legs. The new angle gives him plenty more leverage without having to crouch.

He pushes you harder into the wall and scrapes his teeth against your collarbone. You moan—the softest sound, barely audible—and a vibration courses through his body. Steve wraps his arms more tightly around you. You look to him, a familiar expression of panic crossing your face.

"No, no, it's okay." He nuzzles your neck. "Felt good. Do it again."

Your breath catches. Steve doesn't push. Your powers are… complicated. You're every bit as afraid of hurting him as he is of hurting you. But still, he wants that, wants you to feel comfortable around him. He is about to tell you to forget it (what if he ruined this?), when you give a soft hum.

It passes straight from your body into his. A pleasant tingle run up Steve's spine. He returns the sound and runs his tongue over your pulse in a lazy circle (he discovered you liked that while he was supposed to be watching Citizen Kane). Your hum turns back into a moan, just loud enough that it brushes the edge of hurting.

Steve shudders and buries his face in your shoulder. "God, I love you."

.

.

.

He freezes. Oh, no, did he just say that?

The thrum of water against his back matches the pounding of his heart. A tug on his hair brings him back into the moment and he realizes that his hands are gripping your hips too tight. He looks back to you, finding nothing but warmth in your eyes. You take a few seconds to test you balance before letting go of your grip around his neck.

[even when I'm gross?] you sign. A mischievous smirk plays over your lips.

He chuckles. "I would never think you're gross. I just…" He takes a deep breath, then lets it out between his teeth. "You wouldn't let me kiss you. I thought that you were having second thoughts about… us." The last sentence comes out somewhere between the statement that Steve wanted and the question that he really felt.

You trace your fingers through his hair, brushing the wet strands from his forehead. [no regrets] You smile. [I love you]

Steve releases a breath he hadn't known he was holding and presses you against the wall in a crushing kiss.


End file.
